


Hands Held Within a Rosy Glow

by Jess_B_Fossil



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Holding Hands, It's literally just Sylvain thinking about his relationship with Felix, M/M, Post-Canon, Reminiscing, Romance, Sincerity Zine, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, all comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25379068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess_B_Fossil/pseuds/Jess_B_Fossil
Summary: It's been fifty years, but holding Felix's hand feels just the same as the first time Sylvain took it. Written for Sincerity: A Sylvain Zine.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	Hands Held Within a Rosy Glow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I'm so excited to share with you the piece that I wrote for Sincerity: A Sylvain Zine. You can find more info on downloading it here on their twitter, which can be found [here! ](https://twitter.com/sylvainzine)\-- it's free! Please consider doing so, because the zine is SO SO SO GOOD! Seriously, like 200 pages of Sylvain-y goodness, featuring tons of art and fics. Everyone worked so hard to this project and the result is p h e n o m o n a l. I'm so honored to have been a part of it.

“I hate him,” Felix says, lips tugged into a deep frown. He’s trying his best to look as dignified as an eight-year-old can, but there’s a little wobble to his bottom lip, and he’s whiny in that petulant tone of his and--

Sylvain wants to laugh, because Felix is just too cute for his own good. But he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches out to ruffle Felix’s hair, because Sylvain knows that it’ll annoy him. 

“No you don’t,” Sylvain says, pushing lightly at Felix’s head. 

Felix frowns back, crossing his arms across his chest with a huff. “He’s just-- hes  _ dumb,” _ Felix concludes. 

“Yeah, but he cares.” Sylvain doesn’t really mean for the words to come out so sharp and bitter, but it’s hard-- it’s hard to watch Felix complain about an older brother that actually cares about him. 

Sylvain’s not sure if he actually wants Miklan to care, but he’s given up waiting for him too. Actually, he’s just given up on his brother entirely. 

“Well,” Sylvain says to Felix, clasping his hands behind his head, “Wanna go to the kitchens? I’m sure that Cook wouldn’t mind sharing some goodies.”

Felix sniffles, wiping at his face and then says, “Yeah, okay. But only if she’s got meat pies.”

Sylvain smirks at him. “Race you?”

Felix darts off first, without even answering, and Sylvain runs after him with a surprised squeal.

As they round a corner on the other side of the Gautier Keep, Felix slips, tumbling across the rough stone with a gasp. And then he yelps, hissing as he grabs his knee. Sylvain skids to a stop, before falling to the ground next to him. 

“Felix--”

“It’s nothing.” But Felix is already sniffling, eyes brimming with tears, fingers splayed wide across his knee. 

Sylvain pries Felix’s hands apart and grimaces. Felix’s knee is badly skinned, an angry red and welling up with a little blood. But, it’s not  _ too _ bad. Felix is just a well-known crybaby. 

“To the infirmary then,” Sylvain says. 

“No,” Felix says stubbornly. His voice wavers though, and then he’s sniffling again, cheeks pink and ruddy as he tries to hold back his crying. Then the tears slip down his face and he sobs silently.

Sylvain sighs. “Willful, aren’t you? Felix, you’re hurt.”

“Really, it’s nothing,” Felix repeats, but it’s with a hiccup, followed by a tiny little sob. 

“Alright, if you say so,” Sylvain says, hoping that he’s not making a mistake. When it comes to Felix, he never really knows. He holds his hand out to Felix, who is still laying across the ground. “Kitchen?”

Felix sniffles, rubbing at his nose, staring at Sylvain’s hand for a long moment before he takes it. Sylvain pulls him gently to his feet. 

Felix’s fingers are small and cold in Sylvain’s warm hand.

“Sylvain,” Felix says, looking down at their hands and biting his lips. “Do I have to let go?”

Sylvain looks to his face and smiles, reaching out to ruffle his hair again. “Of course not,” he says, squeezing Felix’s hand. Tears stream silently down Felix’s cheeks, but he seems to calm down at the simple touch.

Felix has always been clingy, and it’s not the first time that they’ve held hands or hugged, but for some reason, this time it feels a little bit different. Like this is  _ exactly _ what Sylvain’s supposed to be doing, right then, at the moment.

Sylvain doesn’t want that light and airy feeling to end, so he holds Felix’s hand the rest of the way to the kitchen. 

And from then on, he finds as many excuses as he can, to hold Felix’s hand.

#

Over the decades, the yearning hasn’t faded, it’s only grown.

When Sylvain had been young, it often felt like the longing was all that he had. The warmth of Felix’s hand in his own, fingers cold and clammy, shaking in his grasp. Tears slipping down his cheeks at whatever woe was bothering him. Something stupid that Glenn had said to him or Ingrid’s personal brand of tough love; the cause hadn’t really mattered because what  _ had, _ was that Felix always ran to him, and that Sylvain would be to first person to take his hand, always there to soothe him. 

First, it had been cute. Then it had been endearing. And then, when they were adults and entrenched in a war that they had little hope of winning, Sylvain had realized holding hands wasn’t just a want, it was a need. The kind of yearning that burns deep inside, keeping you warm on cold nights, that gives you priorities, that makes you want to wake up in the morning and keep going, going,  _ going-- _

In the fifty years since they were children, all lanky limbs and scraped knees, that feeling hasn’t changed.

Currently, Felix is stretched out beside him like a cat, arranged across the mattress with the type of unmatched grace that makes someone jealous. He’s still the most handsome man that Sylvain knows, even with the wrinkles that gently crease the skin around his mouth and silver strands that streak through his midnight hair, like spun moonlight. Circles cut so deeply under his eyes, that they nearly look like bruises, contrasting to the pearly milk-white of his skin.

Felix is trying to read a book, but he’s squinting even through his glasses, lips pulled into a soft frown of annoyance. He pushes the book away, then pulls it closer, then slightly sideways as he keeps readjusting it slightly over and over again. He’s needed a new pair of glasses for years, but Felix is stubborn--still so,  _ so _ stubborn-- but it’s the kind of stubborn that’s aged as well as he has, filling Sylvain with an odd sort of domestic bliss.

Sylvain holds his free hand; he’s always holding Felix’s hand. During their late morning breakfasts or walks through their garden. As he bids Felix goodbye before a trip, clinging to him for as long as he can before he has to break away. 

As they lay in bed, ready to retire for the night, Felix is still pretending that he can read the tiny print across the pages of whatever novel Ashe has sent him.  _ Especially _ as they lay in bed, basking in the comfort of each other after the oil lamps are turned low, Sylvain thumbing the back of Felix’s hand with a careful sort of reverence that’s reserved for this man and this man only. 

Sylvain had said it once when he was young and stupid, in a drunken haze one bleary night in the company of a diligent Mercedes.  _ He’s it, Merce _ , he’d bemoaned to her.  _ He’s my future, he’s the only thing that I need.  _

Sylvain isn’t right about a lot of things, but he’d been right about that. 

Felix looks up, an imitation of a scowl twisting his mouth curtly as his lips curl around a quiet, “What?” 

Sylvain knows better than to think there’s anything behind the tone. It’s been a long time since Felix has truly meant such an acerbic look, and Sylvain knows better than to take it at face value. So, Sylvain flashes him a charming smile, pulling Felix’s hand to his mouth to press a gentle kiss against it. His fingers are cold and thin, still calloused but softer than in their youth.

“Only thinking,” Sylvain whispers against Felix’s knuckles, the words fragile, but warm. Felix pauses, appraising Sylvain. And then, with a mischievous smirk, Sylvain flashes a wink at him, continuing with, “The good kinds of thoughts.” 

Felix cringes, pulling his hand away abruptly and Sylvain laughs. “A joke, I swear.”

“Sentimental dolt,” Felix hisses back, not at all angry or even annoyed. Sylvain leans closer to him, their sides pressed together before Felix shoves a hand at his face. Sylvain pouts, but stops, settling back into his original position, as Felix goes back to failing to read his book. 

Sylvain watches him long enough for Felix to notice, lips settling into a flat line as he looks up from his book once more, the delicate half-moon readers slipping down the bridge of his nose. 

_ Goddess above,  _ Sylvain loves this man more than anything else.

“What,” Felix asks again, and this time he’s quieter and soft, probing even, eyes hooded over the thin metal frames of his glasses, regarding Sylvain with something very different than mild annoyance. 

“We’ve been through a lot,” Sylvain says. “Glenn,” He continues. “Dimitri and Duscur.” 

“Miklan,” Felix says, voice soft and careful. 

The things that they’ve seen; crests, family,  _ war.  _ Friends, who lay dead along the harsh horizon of a battlefield. Friends, who died by their own hands, and only because they picked the wrong side. Or because they hadn’t a choice.   
  
They’ve been to the end of the world and back, it seems, and it hurts. All of it still hurts. They don’t talk about it a lot, but at the same time, they don’t talk about it enough, because these are the things that have shaped their very lives. These are the reasons that they are here now, basking in the warmth of their bed, holding each other close and unyielding.

“You know,” Sylvain starts, “it’s odd to think that without all those terrible things, we wouldn’t be here today. You and I, I mean. Well, actually, maybe we would, but who’s to know? We could--”

“Sylvain.” Felix’s voice is so quiet, Sylvain almost misses it. He watches Felix carefully mark the spot in his book, snapping it shut before placing it on the bedside table. Then he turns the oil lamp low, a soft darkness falling over the room. “Come here,” Felix says, settling against the headboard, arms opening and--

Sylvain loves these rare moments, because Felix is seldom like this. Sylvain scoots closer, pressing himself against Felix’s side properly, cheek settled against Felix’s chest, eyes falling closed in contentment. Felix wraps an arm around him, fingers ghosting along Sylvain’s broad back, before sliding upwards and through his hair. 

“I’m lucky,” Sylvain murmurs into Felix’s shirt, hand pressing into the open collar at his sternum, slipping in to just barely stroke the skin there. “I’m so lucky to be here with you.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Felix murmurs, scratching at Sylvain’s scalp lightly. “We’ve seen terrible things. We’ve been in the trenches, neck deep in war, and even in this peacetime, we’re still dealing with the careful game of politics.” He pauses, sighing softly. “We’ve worked hard for the chance to be together.”

They have-- they  _ have _ , probably harder than anyone else, because a Margrave can’t just go and marry a Duke without the court heavily protesting it. Even if the King and the Archbishop allow for it, even if there’s a want and a wish, and a _ need _ to change the future. People are old and bitter, stubbornly clinging to their antiquated ways and beliefs. 

It’d taken an alliance with Sreng, after decades of war, for them to even consider giving in. They couldn’t tell the hero Margrave  _ no _ , after forging a peace that was long thought impossible. The Duke had called Gautier his home for the entire length of the campaign, anyhow. The court had turned a quiet, blind eye to it, and not out of politeness, but rather fear. Dimitri had defended the two of them and their relationship fiercely. 

He still does, and he shouldn’t have to, not after they’ve said their vows before the Goddess herself; but he does, and Sylvain is thankful for it. And he’s thankful to Felix for waiting, because patience wasn’t, and still isn’t, a virtue of his. 

Sylvain hums against the warm chest underneath him, content, already lulled by Felix’s soft breathing. 

Felix’s free hand slides up to take Sylvain’s hand that rests at his collarbone, their fingers locking together and squeezing tight. Sylvain loves this, because the thrill of their joined palms is exactly the same as that very first time so long ago, and every other time after. 

Sylvain and Felix, young children, reaching out to hold hands in the cold weather, chilled to the bone. 

When Glenn died and Felix screamed his rage into Sylvain, beating at his chest, before Sylvain grabbed his hands tightly, to keep him from breaking fingers.

Sylvain curled into a ball on his floor after the death of Miklan, Felix taking his hands into his and holding them with a tenderness that had only made Sylvain cry harder.

When they stood at Rodrigue’s grave in the rain, Felix staring at the tombstone blankly and unfeeling. 

And now, as they lay in bed, nearly sixty and old and gray, bone weary and wanting to just  _ sleep _ . Even now, it’s the same, so full of warmth and love, and everything that Sylvain thought he would never have. 

“I love you,” Sylvain murmurs against Felix, his words nearly lost in the soft-spun cotton of his shirt. 

“Sap,” Felix says, but the words are soft and rounded, not his usual sharpened steel. Felix shifts slightly, dropping his head and then Sylvain feels the press of cold lips across his brow. “But I know,” he says softly against his skin. “And I love you.”

“Tell me this won’t change,” Sylvain whispers. “That holding your hand will always be the thing that drives me onward.”

Felix’s lips still linger against his skin, and Sylvain can feel him smile. “I believe that it was you who told me that I had  _ no choice _ . That I was  _ stuck _ with you.”

“Are you complaining?” Sylvain asks, smiling into Felix’s chest. 

There’s a pause, and then a sigh. “No,” Felix finally says, pulling off his readers and folding them, before tossing them onto the side table. He settles into their pillows further, pulling the quilt to cover them properly. “Never.”

When Sylvain was young, he’d come to the conclusion that he’d never really get the chance to be happy. He’d marry some woman, have some kids, and fight a never ending war with Sreng. Then, like him, his children would inherit that legacy, and the cycle would just repeat itself. 

Things had shifted with the war, both good and bad, but that’s not the important part. What’s important is the home that they’ve built, the children that they’ve chosen and raised, and the solid and sturdy presence of Felix next to him. 

Felix takes his hand again, fingers cold around his, as he squeezes them gently. This time, it’s for himself, Sylvain thinks. Felix is the kind of man that is quiet with his affection, but in moments like this, in the soft quiet of their bed and the oil lamps burning with a low glow, his actions seem loud. 

Sylvain lives and breathes it. He squeezes Felix’s hand back, an unspoken promise that nothing will ever change; that they’ll just keep going, going,  _ going _ . 

If he were younger, he’d tell himself that he wasn’t worth this, that he wouldn’t ever be. 

Sylvain’s never been so happy, to have been wrong. 

**Author's Note:**

> Have questions? A burning need for answers? Have a story idea? Just want to talk? Don't forget to check out my [Tumblr](https://missmarquin.tumblr.com/), and drop an ask! 
> 
> Also, follow me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/HornyBaldFossil)


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